


Hammer and Anvil

by manic_intent



Category: Man of Steel (2013)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Dru-Zod is not so much a bodyguard but babysitting a military asset, M/M, That AU where Dru-Zod is a bodyguard, and Jor-El doesn't want to make lethal weapons anymore, and Jor-El is the scientist with a million dollar brain, except that it became some sort of weird thought experiment about civil liberties, sort-of Stockholm Syndrome...ish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-28
Updated: 2013-08-28
Packaged: 2017-12-24 22:07:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/945214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/manic_intent/pseuds/manic_intent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Based on what Petrus had said, Dru knew that he was dealing with a scientist of some sort. He had mentally pictured some skinny, spotty kid, rake-thin in a lab coat, or perhaps an elderly man with fluffy white hair. He hadn't expected this - Dr Jordan El is stunningly, movie-star handsome, trim but not slender, a little silver in his three-day-old stubble, but it doesn't touch the rich walnut of his hair, feathering lush over his shoulders.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hammer and Anvil

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Saucery](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saucery/gifts).



> Ursa is the name of one of Dru-Zod's comic book evil sidekicks. Since it's the Latin word for 'Bear', I thought I might as well channel Person of Interest. XD;;
> 
> Prompt from Saucery: Bodyguard AU. Dru-Zod is an ex-Marine, Jor-El is the scientist with a million-dollar brain.

I.

Dru reaches instinctively for the pistol he keeps loaded and close when Ursa's ears twitch, the Malinois glancing up towards the windows, then he breathes out as she scrambles up to her feet with a low huff, wagging her tail, darting for the door. Approaching from the tree line is Major Petrus, dressed for the hike, and after a moment's indecision, Dru pushes himself up from the hardwood chair and strolls out of the cabin, hunched against the chill. It's spring out North, up here, but he can barely feel it.

"Major," he greets quietly, when Petrus ambles to a stop, allowing Ursa to snuffle at his hands. 

"It's 'General' now, actually." Petrus corrects, if gently, and shoves his gloved hands into his pockets. "How're you doing out here, Dru?"

"I'm keeping." Dru doesn't say that it's quiet, for the most part - quiet and people-free and some days, it's quiet enough that he forgets. Petrus nods, slowly, and after a long moment, Dru mutters, "Come in. I'll show you the place." 

Ursa bounds off in front of them, her tongue lolling as she scrabbles over the wood flooring to settle back down in front of the fire on her dog bed, panting excitedly. Sometimes Dru feels a little sorry for her. Military trained dog or not, Ursa naturally likes people, unlike her owner, and it's lonely for her out here. 

"Coffee?" Dru offers.

"Water," Petrus is already looking keenly around the cabin. It isn't much, and it's open plan - the General can see the small kitchenette, the living space, the cot with the heavy quilts at the end, the empty desk, a box of books. All things militantly neat and in their place. His eyes flick over to the pistol, but his gaze doesn't linger: Dru hands him a clean glass of water and waves him to the spare chair.

"Social visit?" Dru drawls. It's obvious that it isn't. Petrus isn't exactly a friend, more of a commanding officer. He's lost the knack of having friends back in the sandy wastes out in Afghanistan. Fewer people to mourn.

"Not exactly," Petrus has the grace to look a little embarrassed. The water, untouched, gets set aside on the window sill. "Dru, I know that you're retired. You deserve it. You've done more for your country than most. Hell, you could probably be sitting in my office right now instead of me if you'd kept at it."

Instead of replying, Dru fishes in his jeans pockets for the squashed packet of cigarettes and a lighter. He offers one to Petrus, but the General gives him a slight shake of his head, and Dru shrugs, lighting up, taking in a slow, gritty drag. He smokes, the gray wisps wreathing up over his face, and doesn't say anything. He supposes that he's always known. Washington never sets an asset aside while it still has something left to give. 

"I'm not going on another tour, Petrus," he says finally, when Petrus seems content to just watch him smoke. "Didn't you read that psych report? My nerves are shot."

"I think the eval was exaggerated," Petrus says, with the slow certainty of someone who had just fixed the documents that way. "And you won't be shipped out. This is a job that's closer to home. Nevada, to be precise."

"What's in Nevada?" Dru exhales, the nicotine calming him. "Some little green men escaped out of Area Fifty-One?"

"Not precisely. We need some of the initiative you showed in your last mission - Operation Cargo."

"Playing courier?" Dru's a little surprised. "Don't you have the FBI for internal matters? Or the CIA?" 

"This isn't a matter of delivering a hostile package, Lieutenant. Not exactly. You're to be assigned as a bodyguard to a… volatile asset." 

"What sort of asset?" 

"That's classified until I have your assurance that you'll take on this job."

Figures. Dru allows himself a cold sneer. "I think I'll pass on this one, General. Never had the patience for babysitting."

"But you delivered a rogue Mossad agent known for his ingenuity and violence into the hands of our friends, across Iraq and through Syria, alone-"

"I wasn't alone the whole way," Dru cuts in flatly. "Lost a few good men."

"My point holds." Petrus says firmly. "I wouldn't have come all the way out here to ask this of you in person if I didn't believe that you were the best man for the job. This asset has already given two of my best men the slip - it's only through sheer luck that we repossessed him."

This is a little more promising. "Stash him in Guantanamo."

"He isn't an enemy combatant. Like I said, he's an asset. One of the key assets behind America's current military superiority." 

"He's trying to defect?"

"We believe that he is." 

Dru snorts. "Shoot him, then. Any work he produces might be flawed." 

"We've prepared against that possibility. Even if he's intentionally producing flawed work, it's work that's beyond anything that anyone else can come up with." Petrus' lips thinned. "I am telling you this in confidence, Lieutenant."

"It's a free country," Dru drawls, ironically, as he sucks in another gritty breath. "Except when you're useful to the Man, hn?"

"How many people do you know are still out there on tour, Dru?" Petrus counters. "Faora-"

" _Don't_. Mention her," Dru snaps, and from the dog bed, Ursa lets out a low whine at his tone, her tail thumping the ground. Dru exhales, narrowing his eyes, and Petrus inclines his head. 

"If you value their lives - if you want them to come home more quickly…" Petrus trails off, and his smile is ugly now, Dru thinks. High command hasn't been good for the Major: it's turned his beaver-like face hungry and pale. There's more to this 'request' than Petrus is saying: that much is obvious enough. This is just Petrus asking him _nicely_.

Whoever the 'volatile asset' is has to be truly worth the trouble, and in truth, deep down, past his cynicism and his shaken nerves, the bad dreams and the paranoia, all gifts from his tours in Afghanistan and Iraq and that last horrific leg through Syria, Dru still does love this country, fucked up as it is. 

"Fine," he says finally. "But the money had better be good, and this is the last time I do a job for you, understand?"

"Dru," Petrus says seriously, "If you do this job well, you'll probably be doing it for as long as you're capable of doing it. There isn't a timeframe. This will take up the rest of your life."

Figures. But at least Petrus is being honest. "Let's go take a look at this asset."

II.

Based on what Petrus had said, Dru knew that he was dealing with a scientist of some sort. He had mentally pictured some skinny, spotty kid, rake-thin in a lab coat, or perhaps an elderly man with fluffy white hair. He hadn't expected this - Dr Jordan El is stunningly, movie-star handsome, trim but not slender, a little silver in his three-day-old stubble, but it doesn't touch the rich walnut of his hair, feathering lush over his shoulders. He _is_ wearing a labcoat over a rumpled collared blue shirt, no tie, gray tailored pants brushing slightly incongruous red sneakers.

Dru sucks in a slow breath. That's it. That's proof. God hates him. The first man he's been immediately attracted to on sight, in _years_ , is off-limits.

El looks him over slowly and thoughtfully, then he curls his thumbs into the large pockets of his lab coat and smiles. It's a gentle smile, but mirthless: the good Doctor's quite aware of his status - and he looks past Dru to Petrus.

"Another puppy? General, you shouldn't have."

"It's either assign you a bodyguard or keep you locked up in here all the time," Petrus notes dryly, and there's a touch of good humour there that surprises Dru. Past whatever fucked up mandate of National Security is keeping El here against his will, El and Petrus are friends. It puts a different light on what he's asking Dru to do. Maybe. 

"Locked in a lab for all eternity?" El's tone is facetious. "Not so great a hardship. We could make it official. Orange jumpsuits instead of white labcoats." 

"God forbid. You'll have blown us all to hell by the weekend. I'll leave the two of you to it. Jor, I can't hold off the Pentagon forever. You need to complete that drone AI."

El exhales, his eyes dropping over to the computer desk he had risen up from when Petrus had walked Dru into the room. "I'll get something to you by the evening," he says reluctantly, and Petrus nods, pats Dru on the arm, and steps out. 

The lab is probably three times as big as Dru's cabin, but El seems to work alone. This corner is full of computers, linked together with thick black cables, and El's desk has a keyboard, mouse, and four large monitor screens, the fourth stacked on top of the middle screen. Various programs are open on it, most of it command prompts, filled with thick lines of code. 

Another workbench runs the span of the other side of the room, and it's heaped with tools, spare parts, and multi-coloured spools of wires. Pride of place on the workbench is a slender missile, part of it dismantled, like an unfinished robotic fish bereft of its guts and scales: judging from its size, probably intended to fit under the wing of a fighter jet. Other projects, less identifiable, sit in their own islands of wiring, benches, printouts and computer consoles, and Dru eyes them all quietly, taking in cover positions and the exit proximity.

"You're a Marine," El says distractedly - Dru glances sharply at him, but he seems absorbed back in his code. "Ex-Marine. Late of Iraq, I think? You're suffering from PTSD, or some flavour of it. It was enough to invalidate you back home but oddly not enough to get you assigned back on duty." 

Dru bites down his retort, and settles for watching the door while keeping El in sight peripherally. He has patience when he's on the job - he can do this indefinitely if he needs to. 

"Your uniform's new. You probably agreed to this only yesterday," El burbles on, "Probably why Petrus was gone for a day. He went to fetch you in person. That's interesting. Hey." El has to repeat himself before Dru arches an eyebrow at him. "You're not mute, are you?"

"I'm not being paid to talk to you. Do your work." He says it more curtly than he had intended.

"You don't like me," El muses, sounding curious rather than offended. 

"I don't like everyone," Dru corrects. "Until proven otherwise." He grits his teeth - he hadn't meant to speak - but El laughs, startled. 

"Really?" 

"Life is less disappointing that way." Most people are stupid asswipes, Dru finds. He doesn't know what Ursa sees in them. The eternal potential of dog biscuits, maybe. He misses her a little, even though she's close by - Area 51 has a K-9 unit, and the handlers know how to keep military-grade dogs happy. 

"Petrus didn't give me your name," El ventures, and he smiles - it's warm and genuine, and scientists have no business being this gorgeous. Dru looks away, towards the door, but El is persistent. "I'm Jordan El. Please call me 'Jor'. What's your name?" When Dru doesn't answer, El adds, "I'm going to keep asking you until I get an answer, by the way."

"Or you can finish whatever you're coding for the General and I'll tell you," Dru counters, without thinking, then he bites down on his cheek. Fuck. He's going to have to watch himself more closely. Being dropped back into the military a year after isolation is disorienting.

"I thought I was getting a babysitter, not a slave driver," El, however, looks amused. "Why don't you take a seat? Isn't it going to be tiring standing there all day?"

"Do your work, Doctor." 

Surprisingly enough, El actually obeys, and his expression goes from amused to blank to utterly absorbed in a heartbeat. Dru keeps his place, occupying his mind by thinking through the last book he had been reading, a historical account of D-Day, and the afternoon passes quietly enough. He does miss his cabin and the quiet of the ranges, but this isn't as bad as he thought it would be: in a way, the orderly, military slant of the installation has been itself a little comforting. 

Eventually, El finishes whatever he's coding, emails Petrus, and turns back to him. "Do I get three questions?"

"You've already asked your question. I'll answer to 'Dru'." 'Zod' is an uncommon enough surname that El can probably easily pull his file off military records, and he doesn't feel inclined to share that much as yet. 

"Short for…?"

"That's another question."

"'That's another question'? What an _unusual_ name," El grins, then he laughs when Dru scowls at him. "Sorry. Bad joke. Are you hungry? It's nearly dinner."

This is probably a tactic: it's one that the rogue Mossad agent had tried early on. Be affable and friendly, hope that your captors let their guard down, and then shiv them in the back. He shrugs, and follows El out towards the communal canteen, studying and memorising the layout of the building as they go. He's been shown a general plan by Petrus on the way down, but it helps to see it in person.

El chatters all the way, a man with a love for his own voice if Dru has ever seen one, seemingly unperturbed by Dru's silence. Dru learns that El is working on at least four different projects all at once, two of which are urgent, and that El's concept of 'urgent' seems… creatively different from the norm. Judging from the man's accent, he's an American, probably from Metropolis, and the occasional unconscious hint of military slang to his speech indicates that he's been working in installations like this for a while.

This conclusion is reinforced in the canteen - El knows everyone, even the names of the serving staff, all of whom also smile and greet him with quips and friendly queries which turn incurious and sober when it's Dru's turn to be served. They know what Dru's here for, then. And, more importantly, it's a testament to El's natural charisma that he's managed to swing the sympathies of the serving staff against soldiers. Most people who choose to work in top secret installations like these come from military families, carefully picked for their loyalties.

Dru eats in silence as he absently recalculates the security risk of the base. Can he trust the janitorial staff? What about the regulars? Petrus himself? Maybe the General wasn't all up on the straight and narrow. Dru's painfully aware that he's not exactly fit for active duty, not anymore. 

No one sits at their table, and although El tries talking to Dru at first, even his relentlessly sunny nature fades before Dru's silence, and eventually, he puts down his fork with a sigh. "Dru."

"Sir." El winces - Dru hides a smirk. 

"You're going to be working with me for a while now, so-"

"I'm not working for you," Dru corrects. 

El's grin flashes quick over his soft mouth, and Dru has to tamp down on his irritation. "I didn't say that you were. We're _both_ working for Petrus."

"People don't usually expect conversation out of puppies, sir."

El blinks for a moment, then he actually looks shamefaced. "I didn't mean that. I'm sorry." 

Dru shrugs. "I wasn't offended." He finishes up and watches the exit, observing the flow of people. Life is usually fairly precise in a military installation. He needs to pick up on the base pattern.

The way back's quiet, at least, although once they're in the lab, El glances at him. "I work late." His tone is still apologetic.

"I know." He's memorised El's schedule, not that there's much to it. His life starts with breakfast at 0830 hours, and then he works in the lab until he passes out in it, apparently, with occasional breaks for food and the bathroom. In all appearances, it's a normal lab rat's day. 

"You don't have to stay." El grins at him. "I promise I won't try to escape through the laundry hatch." 

Dru doesn't bother dignifying that with an answer, glancing back to the door, but this doesn't, as he had hoped, get El back to working on his projects. "Do I get to ask more questions if I work?" 

"I'm not here to make sure that you work." Dru points out, irritated at El's tone. "You could play fucking Solitaire on your computer all night if you liked." 

El's playfulness wilts. He's lonely, Dru notes impassively, and it's probably the scientist's own damn fault that he's so isolated out of meal breaks. Shouldn't have tried to defect. He reviews the rest of the book in silence as El creates strings of code for an hour before seemingly arbitrarily wandering over to the missile to tinker with its cabling. He ends up falling asleep over the workbench, propped awkwardly over his tools and the chair, and Dru eyes him for a moment before walking over to shake his shoulder.

"Sir. I'm going to have to get you to your room."

El murmurs something under his breath, yawns, but allows himself to be pried off his workbench and guided, leaning heavily against Dru with each step. El's living quarters aren't far away - same block as his lab, actually, and it's clear from a brief glance that the room used to be some sort of reinforced containment storage, hastily refitted. A side door leads to a bathroom, at least, and El pulls sleepily at his wrists as he rolls the yawning scientist into the cot. 

"Dru," El tries to focus on him even as Dru pointedly drags his hands out of El's grip. "Hey, um-"

Dru's tired, and when he's tired he's irritable, and it's probably too late in the day to go check on Ursa, so he's sharper than normal as he growls, "Good night, sir." 

"Ah," El swallows, then he looks away, even as he sits up. "Yes."

III.

Dru gets up an hour early so he can get over to the K-9 quadrant of Security to play with Ursa. She's happy to see him, as anxious as she looks in the cage, but she gets exercised with the other dogs and the trainers haven't been having problems. Ursa whines when he goes, but he has a job to do. Poor girl. This is going to be the rest of their life.

He relieves the night guard posted to watch El, checks his watch, and raps on the door. There's a pause, then El answers it, already looking relatively cleaned up and unsettlingly cheerful. It's as though the man is born with a fucking natural caffeine gland of some sort. Dru stays silent through all the chatter, trying not to yawn, and the coffee in the canteen is served the way he likes it - strong enough to punch him straight up into normal function. 

"You've got… fur on your sleeves," El notes, as he eats some sort of hippie cereal and yogurt. Since Dru doesn't have to fend for himself, he's going for the first eggs-and-the-works breakfast he's had in a year. Civilisation has its benefits. Fuck heart attack warnings. "Dog fur. The K-9 unit?"

"Good call." 

"You like dogs?"

"Would I wake up early and visit the K-9 unit if I didn't?"

"You've _got_ a dog," El concludes, with a grin. "Otherwise there's no reason that you would've been allowed access. What's its name?"

"Why do you need to know?" 

El looks briefly frustrated. "I don't _need_ to know, I just, I'm just making conversation."

"I'm not here to be your friend. You're an asset that I've been ordered to keep an eye on. Do your work, and I'll do mine."

"We're still having breakfast."

"Were you this irritating to your previous minders?"

"No, they didn't-" El catches himself hurriedly.

"Didn't what?"

"Didn't talk," El concludes, reluctantly and slowly. "It was like living in _solitary_."

"You don't know what living in an actual jail is like," Dru retorts flatly, and finishes up. So that's where his mistake was. No wonder El had been so pleased when Dru had first talked to him. "You done?"

"Of course I know it's not a real correlation-"

"Then maybe you shouldn't _raise_ it," Dru growls, and he tries to pull back his temper, he does, but it's difficult. El's touched a nerve, however unwittingly, one dusted over with bad memories. 

"I'm sorry," El apologises on their way back, flushed and upset, "I'm really sorry."

"Shut up." He doesn't want to deal with this. El's obvious eagerness to stay in his good books seems far more unsettling now than it did yesterday. Either the man's a very good actor, or he's so painfully isolated that he doesn't care who he's talking to as long as he's having some sort of conversation. Was this Petrus' plan? It has the makes of it, around the edges: it's subtle and bloodless all at once. 

"You're angry with me," El hovers anxiously as Dru closes the door to the lab behind them, locking it. 

"I'm not." He isn't anymore, not really. El studies him closely for a long moment, then he looks so relieved that Dru grits his teeth and turns his eyes away, towards the door. 

"All right," El says placatingly, and that tone irritates Dru far more than El's previous stupid statement. 

"If you liked having people around so much, maybe you shouldn't have tried to defect."

El stares at him, startled, then his lip curls, the smile mirthless and small. "Is that what Petrus told you?"

"Why, how else did you want to describe it? Tea and scones with the Russians?" 

"I wasn't going to go to anyone. I wasn't even going to leave the base if they wanted me to stay. I just didn't want to work on military projects anymore," El retorts sharply.

The heat in El's voice is a little startling, at odds with El's usually gentle manner, and Dru always reacts defensively when he's startled. "What else did you want to work on then," he drawls, "Smart phones and fucking coffee machines?" 

"The world needs clean energy," El narrows his eyes, "We're going to be fighting _wars_ over it soon if we don't… or space travel, our technology's been stymied by lack of funding and ideas for _years_ -"

"Better solar panels and spaceships? That's what you want to be working on?"

"Better than this!" El waves his hand over at the lab. "Everything in here is designed to kill someone!"

"And you've got a problem with that?"

"Of _course_ I do-"

"D'you want to know, _sir_ ," Dru notes flatly, "How many people _I've_ killed?"

This brings El abruptly up short: he hesitates, then he murmurs, "Ah, well, um, you're a soldier."

"And all these things you're working on, they're for people like me, hm?" 

The hunted look is back in El's eyes, and in a way, Dru missed the flash of temper. This look just raises his hackles. "I didn't mean to imply-"

"I still have people I care for in the service, doing tours in places like Iraq. If anything in this room makes sure that even one of them comes home alive when they wouldn't otherwise, then I don't care what you think of people like me or the military. Do your goddamned work. In quiet," he adds quickly, when El opens his mouth, probably to apologise. 

El's anxiety is bad for his nerves, though and at lunch, if only because El is making _Dru_ seriously jumpy, Dru says, neutrally. "Ursa. My dog's name is Ursa. She's a Malinois, was getting too old for field work. Used to be part of my unit. When I retired, they let me keep her."

El freezes, his fork still partly hooked in his salad, then he looks so grateful that Dru has to glance away again. This isn't acting. And it isn't really what he signed up for. A hostile, angry asset he could have dealt with. He isn't sure what he's meant to be doing with El. "I had a dog before, growing up in New York," El offers. "Rescue dog. Had to be a mix of at least four different sorts of dog. None of the parts really did fit."

Dru envisions a patchwork dog, maybe something part Dachshund, pug, German Shepherd and poodle, and grins, amused. He grew up on the borders of Harlem, and he had seen dogs like that in the street, mutts, clever at thievery and begging - nothing like Ursa, of course, but he rather liked them. They tried a goddamned measure harder at life than most people he knew.

"I would like to see your dog," El adds tentatively, as Dru finishes up.

"No dogs allowed in this bit of the facility."

"We could go to-"

"Out of the question." The K-9 section is on the outskirts, with fewer security measures. Not that Dru isn't confident that he can keep El under wraps - this isn't Syria, after all - but he can't really justify a detour. El looks briefly as though he's about to argue, but then he nods and drops his eyes. In a way, that's worse.

IV.

A thought occurs to him one day, near dinner, that he probably should have examined earlier, if his instincts weren't so thrown by the situation. "Previously, did you eat your meals in the canteen?" he asks out aloud, and El fumbles something over at the missile that sends a mess of wiring and delicate-looking components clattering to the floor.

Dru steps over automatically to help him clean up, and comes to a stop when El shrinks back against the workbench. The scientist is composed again with his next breath, but his reaction is answer enough, and Dru says nothing, circling back to sit down at the chair that he's pulled up within sight of the door. Slowly, El picks up everything that's scattered on the ground, and takes in an unsteady breath before turning back to the missile. He's wondering whether or not to lie, Dru concludes, grimly, and Dru realizes that he's curious to see whether El is going to try, or whether he's smart enough to try and salvage the situation.

He _had_ known the names of the serving staff, though.

Though then again, it isn't as though the staff in such facilities tends to rotate. Presumably, at some point in the past, before El decided on his career change, he had been allowed the run of the facility. 

The silence stretches, until it's clear that El isn't going to reply, and Dru shrugs, settling back into his chair, revising the facility layout in his mind. It keeps him occupied until his internal clock tells him that it's time to eat, then he looks back over to El.

The scientist hasn't moved - he's still at the workbench, hands clutched at the metal edge, staring at the missile. 

Has he been doing that all along? Dru silently curses himself for his inattention - he should have been watching El as well as the exit - and then, unexpectedly, he's tired, and restless, and the room is stifling. He knows he shouldn't actually break procedure - the military thrives on precedent - but it isn't as though he's received any specific instructions from Petrus. He needs a walk, and he can't leave El here by himself, so. Dru breathes out. 

"Dinner," he says finally, then, "Move," when El doesn't look up. 

El's chin jerks up so sharply that Dru nearly tenses, and a look of sheer hope and relief blazes so intensely over his features that it's like a slap in the face. Dru had long thought his conscience baked dry over the backbone of the Hindu Kush, but it stirs now, and a cold sensation wells in his gut. He keeps his face impassive as he gets to the door, holding it open, and El's almost composed again as he steps out. 

He can tell that El's all but vibrating with the need to say something, God forbid, to _thank_ him or something equally horrible, but he stays silent all the way to the canteen, though his smile's uneven as he greets the serving people, his words stumbling. They stare at Dru with silent accusation when it's his turn, but it isn't as though he cares what they think. 

El had been really isolated, then. Huh. Dru wonders how long it's been. What game Petrus is playing at. Bait and switch? A carrot after the stick? It's unlikely. If he had wanted _that_ to work, he could have picked a lovely trained girl out of the CIA, one of those women who could switch from being mile long legs of sex to deadly killing machines in a heartbeat: he's seen them now and again in Iraq, odd as it might seem for them to be operating in those zones. They could've had El curled around their little fingers and sitting up and begging in hours. Or a man, if El's preferences went the other way. Dru doesn't judge. He's largely indifferent to gender himself - although he appreciates the lifting of Don't Ask, Don't Tell. 

The food seems tasteless, and he chews mechanically, washes it down with water, and eyes El. El isn't looking at him: his shoulders are slumped, meek, and he looks shaken. He's eating slowly, as though expecting Dru to drag him back to the lab any minute, and hell. Dru may have taken to command like a duck to water: he's naturally good at strategy, and he likes to be in control of a situation - but this? This isn't the sort of power that he's remotely interested in. 

"Hey," Dru says gruffly, and El flinches. "Calm down."

"Okay." El breathes out, slowly. "Okay."

"You want to be called 'Jor', right?" Dru dredges old memories from the Academy. He's never had to handle this sort of shit when he had been on tour - Faora had been far better at it. El… _Jor_ nods, warily, as though expecting a trick question. "I'm a soldier and I like canteens," Dru adds, shooting from the hip and unsure where he's going. "So you can forget about me fetching food for you to the lab."

Jor blinks at him, and he fiddles with his fork for a moment and smiles: there's something heartbreaking about how open he looks, but Dru forces himself to watch. He can't get affected. He reminds himself that he's here to do a job: he'll have to build some sort of immunity to Jor's personality sooner or later. 

"Noted," Jor says finally, then, as though he can't help himself, he asks, in a small voice, "Why did you take this job? I mean," he adds, in a rush, when Dru arches an eyebrow, "I'm curious. You're a long way from Iraq, or wherever you were posted."

Oh, what the hell. Dru decides he doesn't really care whether Jor digs up his military records or not. What can the man do? "I got a purple heart towing a rogue Mossad agent across Iraq and Syria into Israel. He had information that we wanted. Wasn't easy. Suppose Petrus thought that made me qualified for future babysitting missions."

"This is a bit of a step down, isn't it?" Jor looks impressed, though. Dru tells himself that he doesn't care. 

"I've got my orders." 

"The others assigned to me after I first tried to… well, the first one was from the FBI. Second one was CIA." 

"And you slipped both?" It's Dru's turn to be impressed, grudgingly so. "I'm surprised that Petrus didn't chain you to the lab." 

He belatedly regrets his choice of words - he doesn't want to trigger another anxiety episode - but Jor laughs. "Believe me, I think he was tempted. You're different than they were. Than my previous bodyguard, even, I mean, before everything, and he was an actual bodyguard, not a minder." 

"Should hope so," Dru mutters. He didn't exactly live the last few decades of his life in a culture that respected suits. 

"I mean," Jor begins, then he hesitates and drops the topic, but he's in a good mood for the rest of the day. That counts for something. At the very least, Dru's nerves settle.

V.

Petrus randomly drops in after a week and a half, and although Jor smiles at him in greeting, Dru doesn't miss how he tenses up. Neither does Petrus - he eyes Jor curiously, then turns back to Dru.

"How's things?"

"I'm keeping. How's things on the General front, sir?"

"Also keeping. Barely, some days." Petrus grins. "You were better at it than I was." 

"Maybe." Dru's hard-coded not to be insubordinate to a commanding officer unless necessary, but he can't lie, either. 

"Might want to consider it sometime." Petrus drawls, and there's a faint noise as Jor grips the edge of his desk. 

Dru recognises the signs by now, but he doesn't know what prompts him to ask, "Looking for me, or for the Doctor, sir?"

"You, actually. Just getting a report. Let's step outside." 

Dru straightens up into something closer to attention once the heavy door's closed and they've switched places with the outer guard, but Petrus keeps walking until they reach an empty room - he pulls them in and closes the door. "How's Dr El?" he asks immediately.

"You want an honest opinion or an official one?"

Petrus smiles, humourlessly. "I think we've known each other long enough now, haven't we? Give it to me."

"He's fucked in the head," Dru says bluntly, "Gets anxiety attacks, can't stand cold shoulders or being alone for too long. He works until he passes out so that he can sleep. And you people did that to him. Funny way to treat an asset. Or an American citizen."

"Better than - what was it you suggested? Shooting him?"

"Could've been kinder, sir."

"We don't shoot American citizens without a hell of a good reason." Petrus points out, with a shrug, "But Heaven help us, we do have the right to hold them without trial if we need to."

"He told me that he just wants to work on non-military projects."

"We can't afford to waste his talent on trivialities. And besides," Petrus shoots him a sidelong glance, "If so, he wouldn't have tried to escape, would he? Don't start getting sympathetic, Dru. Believe me, Dr El is an extremely intelligent man - he's smarter than the two of us combined and then some. He got away from his previous two minders because they underestimated him."

"Suppose you let him work on stuff that's defensive in nature," Dru says, without thinking. "Shielding. IED remote detonations, things like that. Better kevlar vests." Petrus arches an eyebrow, and Dru adds, defensively, "He'll probably produce better work if he's happy, and he'll still be useful. Maybe even stop trying to escape."

"I'll submit that to higher consideration," Petrus agrees, which Dru knows is military bullshit for _not a chance_. "But we're winning the war on terror because of his drone programs. As long as he keeps making upgrades, we keep saving soldiers. There's nothing I want more," Petrus continues, when Dru snorts, "Than a war where we don't spend any American blood at all. Where our troops are just used in peacekeeping missions." 

"Going to be a long day coming, sir." 

"Maybe so. But it comes closer each day with each weapon that comes out of that lab. You do your job, and I'll try to do mine, and after all this, whatever happens, if you want it, I can arrange for you to be fast-tracked to high command, if you don't like how things are going, or you can go home, whatever you like."

"I thought this was going to be a lifetime gig," Dru points out, suspicious.

"Gig lasts as long as you manage to keep it up, but statistically, like I said, he's a highly intelligent man. Outsmarted the best in the FBI and the CIA."

"You're saying a Marine can't do better?" Dru drawls. "I could be hurt." There's something in Petrus' tone, though, that he can't figure out. There's another angle here. 

"I'm saying that all we're asking is that you give it your best shot, and if that isn't enough, there's still a future for you in the top brass. Now get back to your post, Lieutenant." 

He gets.

Jor's so close to the door when Dru switches out with the guard that he nearly walks right into him. As it is, he very nearly reacts defensively. "Aren't you supposed to be working?" he asks gruffly, to cover his surprise.

"Where's the General?" Jor shoots back, his hands clenched.

"Don't know. Generals are busy."

"You're still here," Jor adds, uncertainly, pale, and his hands are shaking a little, Dru realizes, puzzled. What the hell.

"Did that guard say something to you?" The thought of the guard saying something upsetting to Jor makes him a little angry. Dru's above punching out security, especially other soldiers, but he's not above shaking them a little. Maybe. More than a little.

"No… no, what… why would he, is he your replacement?" Jor blurts out in a rush, "Let me talk to Petrus, call him in, please don't go. _Please._ "

"I'm stuck with you for now," Dru frowns, caught off-guard and disliking it. "What's the matter with you? Calm the fuck down."

"For now? What do you mean 'for now'?"

"Up until the point where you give me the slip," Dru says, wondering whether he should call medical for a sedative. He hasn't seen Jor get the shakes this bad before. "Petrus thinks that's going to be a done deal."

"Oh. Oh." 

"Hey. Calm down." Dru awkwardly pats Jor on the shoulder, and he flinches when Jor seems to take this as an invitation to hug him tightly, oblivious to how Dru tenses all the way up. The space between his shoulder blades ache, anticipating an attack, but Dru gets his reflexes under control and tugs lightly at Jor's shoulders. "Let up. Hey. You're crushing me."

Jor lets out a soft and strangled sound, then he pushes away hurriedly, nearly overbalancing, and skitters over to the computer desk. He's too jittery to work: he brings up a few programs but ends up staring at the screen, and Dru doesn't really know what else to do, so he sits back down on his chair and stares at the ceiling. He thinks he's beginning to see Petrus' play, here, and he likes it even less. 

After an hour of this, he's had enough. He gets up from his chair, making sure to make it loud, and Jor jerks visibly, turning to watch him. "We're going for a walk," Dru says firmly. 

"Where?"

"You wanted to see my dog, yeah? At this time of day, she's probably in the yard." The training yard's fenced in tight, with watchtowers. Jor will need the power of flight to get out. Probably. 

"Okay," Jor clearly doesn't believe that they're going to actually go there, and that annoys Dru - he doesn't lie, and he hates it when people think that he is. They walk in silence out to the courtyard, and it takes Dru a while to talk the guards into letting them out without having to patch through to Petrus. 

Jor just stands nervously and dispiritedly next to him, though he blinks as the guards finally step aside. The sun's out, though the air's crisp, but Jor opens his palms, watching the play of sunlight over his fingertips in a dull sort of awe that makes Dru wonder how long Jor's been inside. 

Years? Longer? 

He almost asks, but then Ursa spots them, and the next few minutes are a riot of doggy whining and licking. Jor grins, tentatively at first, then he laughs as Ursa snuffles at his hands, her tail wagging so hard that her entire butt sways with it, and then she makes a concerted attempt to lick his face off. 

Dru pets Ursa, gives her the gesture to _watch_ , and heads over to the trainers, petting a few other dogs and getting an update. It's just a front, he admits. Jor's oblivious to his absence - he's happily on his knees in the dirt, playing with Ursa. She'll corral him if he tries to run, but for now, she's affable. 

They stay out and watch the other dogs go through their rounds, all the way until the sun's almost out, and Ursa whines unhappily as they prepare to leave. He slaps her against the flank, and she bumps heavily into his knees, then snuffles at Jor again before padding off after the other dogs. Jor's smiling, still smiling even after they walk all the way back to his lab, and Dru's a little relieved. That worked out well.

"She's a nice dog," Jor says, when they're alone.

"She's a _great_ dog," Dru corrects.

"Of course, I meant that," Jor laughs, examines his hands, then dusts ineffectively at his sleeves. There's honey-colored dog fur everywhere. "I'm going to have to wash my hands and change my coat, or that missile will be contaminated."

"Sure." Dru's already settling back into his chair, content. 

"Thanks. For doing that. You didn't have to." Jor adds, hesitant again.

Embarrassed, Dru mutters, "Don't get used to it. Security risk." 

"I know. But thank you anyway." Jor takes a step forward, then he thinks better of it, awkwardly fiddling with his fingers, and turns to head to the bathroom. Dru lets out a slow breath. He doesn't do hugs.

VI.

They settle into a routine, sort of. Military training has also hard-coded Dru to like routine, but he also knows that routines are dangerous. They make people complacent. He mixes it up, keeps it random: some days they take a walk, some days they don't see Ursa. Petrus doesn't say anything, and in any case, although Dru's no expert, Jor seems to be stabilising.

He's one of those naturally, weirdly gentle people who genuinely tries to see the best in everyone. It's both curious and frustrating all at once. Dru's happy alone or in a squad, but Jor seems to need people around. Isolation wouldn't have fucked him up this much otherwise, in Dru's opinion: it isn't as though he doesn't have endless things to occupy his brain with.

The unsettling nature of his new assignment gets less unsettling over time, at least up until they're about half a year in, and then one afternoon after lunch as they get back to the lab, Jor tugs Dru into a corner, near the edge of the long workbench that used to hold the missile and now holds some sort of engine. Jor looks nervous, and Dru frowns - he doesn't recall anything that might have set him off.

"What?" he asks brusquely, when Jor doesn't say anything.

"Dru, I… I looked up your file. Last week." 

Dru waits. There's nothing in his file that he's ashamed of, as far as he knows. When Jor continues to just twist at his fingers, Dru prompts, "And?"

"Some of the notes on it were deleted after Don't Ask, Don't Tell was repealed, but I got a cached copy, um…" Jor trails off, and Dru arches an eyebrow. Jor didn't exactly strike him as someone who would have a problem with that sort of thing. "This is probably a personal question, but, are you, do you have a…"

Dru sighs. "Is this going to be a problem?"

"No! No, I was just, just asking," Jor murmurs, and _now_ Dru recognises this flavour of nervousness. He hasn't seen it in a long time, not since before he got deployed: he still went to certain bars then. After Afghanistan, he stopped drinking. Having his senses dulled gave him that itchy feeling between his shoulder blades. 

"It's a personal question," Dru says neutrally, "And inappropriate, sir."

"Oh, of course. Yes. I'm sorry." Jor mumbles, and scurries back to the refuge of the disemboweled engine. Dru eyes him for a moment, then he settles into his chair, unsettled again. Jor might be one of the most beautiful people Dru has ever met, but he's an asset - Dru can't ever see him that way.

Instead of being flattered, Dru feels like he's being hemmed in again - that disconcerting feeling of being part of Petrus' game to break down a fellow American worsens. He considers, for the first time, seriously asking Petrus for a transfer to the Pentagon, and he's still thinking it over by the time it's almost time for dinner.

"Dru," Jor asks over by the engine, and Dru glances over. Jor's twitchy again: his hands can't keep still over the workbench, and this flavour of anxiety is what Dru's used to. "I'm really sorry that I asked. I won't ask again. Please forget that I asked."

"Maybe you should have thought that through _before_ you asked," Dru retorts, and Jor stiffens: he looks anguished, and grimly, Dru's glad and disgusted at himself all at the same time. His battered conscience pulls at him, but he ignores it. Jor's stirred up a hell of a lot of old shadows that Dru would rather have left behind him. DADT hadn't affected him as badly as it had others, but it had still left its scars. 

"I said I was sorry-"

"You're an assignment," Dru cuts in. "And at any time that I feel that I'm getting compromised, it would be my duty to ask Petrus for a transfer. Understand?"

Jor lets out a strangled sound and turns away sharply. Dru waits, but it doesn't look like Jor's about to calm down anytime soon, and he bites down on a sigh. He was getting hungry, too. 

It takes Jor _days_ to calm down, and Dru's still jumpy for a time after that, which is probably what saved his life when the South African merc team came and kicked down the door to the facility. With explosives. 

It's a professional hit, clean and surgical, with comms links targeted first, but some guard still manages to trigger the alarm, and Dru holds on to Jor as he hustles him to the designated evac. Everyone else has to bunker down, but Jor's evac procedure is to get moved to another facility, just in case. It occurs to Dru that this is a dumb idea, even as he gets shot at on his way up to the H-pad, and it's only his frayed nerves that makes him a split second too wary to round a corner when training tells him that it's in the all clear. The shot whines past his ear, and he shoves Jor down against the floor and the corner of the lockers they're ducked against, firing back. Someone shouts and drops, and Dru breathes out, slowing his breath before checking around the corner again. Clear.

It's a bloody slog upwards, though, and Dru abandons the plan quickly after getting to the stairs and glancing up. Someone's had access to Jor's evac plans, probably the same people who managed to get so much intel on the facility's security layout and comm data. "Change of plans," he tells Jor flatly, and takes them down to the basement instead. There's a warren of routes outwards, mostly to supply chambers, but there's a few up to the courtyard, where Dru can probably either get to help or commandeer another helicopter. 

Jor's taking all this surprisingly calmly, and Dru frowns at him as they hurry down a corridor, telling him so. Jor smiles at this, a little wryly. "Not my first time, Lieutenant." 

Ah, of course. "You would have thought that the facility would have fucking gotten over its shit by now then," Dru mutters. 

"Oh no, the other attempts were in… other places. This is the first time that this facility's been hit." 

"I swear to God, if you're somehow behind this-"

"If I was, nobody would have shot at you," Jor mumbles, almost inaudibly, and Dru pretends not to have heard it as he checks around a corner. It's clean going until they nearly get to the transport wing, where their luck promptly runs out, and Dru gets shot. 

He fucking _hates_ snipers. 

At least the round caught him in the leg and not anywhere more serious, and Dru had gotten off a lucky shot that had downed the sniper, but Jor panics and dithers around trying to staunch the blood, and Dru grabs him by the collar. "The other times," he growls, "Were they trying to kill you, or catch you?"

"Not sure. Probably the latter." Jor's hands fumble against his leg, slippery with blood. "Dru-"

Dru contemplates his pistol and the bared line of Jor's neck. Petrus hadn't briefed him on this. It's unlikely that Jor will be able to get out of the facility on his own, and even if he did, it's even more unlikely that he'll turn himself in. With the rogue Mossad agent, his orders had been to shoot the man if it ever came to a possibility that Dru wouldn't be able to complete his mission. With Jor… 

Jor catches him staring, and he freezes for a moment, understanding flashing over his eyes, then he ties off the makeshift tourniquet and sits back. There's no fear in him, not even as he stares down the barrel of Dru's gun. "If you're going to do what you have to," he says then, quietly, "Could I, could I have a last request?"

"What?"

"I want to kiss you," Jor says in a fumbled rush, and in Dru's opinion, this is hardly the time or place, but then Jor leans in quickly and kisses him on the mouth, the press of his lips almost too hard to be pleasant. Dru doesn't move, a little dazed: fingers rub up towards his neck and Dru grabs Jor's wrist by reflex with his free hand. It's over too soon, and his cheeks feel hot, dazed even through the throb of pain in his leg, and then Jor whispers, hushed, "All right. I'm ready."

Hell. 

He can't, after all. 

Dru's failed his mission. But he can't really find it in himself to feel guilty. Maybe it's the blood loss.

"I hope so," Dru growls, and pushes the pistol into Jor's hand. "Know how to use one of these? Safety off, aim and shoot. Safety on at all other times, don't point it at people you don't intend on shooting. I assume since you've gotten out of here before that you know the route out?"

Jor stares at him, genuinely startled, and a part of Dru is relieved. So it hasn't been an act, after all. Jor is a crazy bastard. "But you-"

"I've got another gun. Should be able to buy you some time from here. We're at a bottleneck, that's why they set up the sniper there."

"I can support your weight."

"Too slow. Just _go_ ," Dru snaps, "And by the way, the last few times you got caught, you got caught because you didn't have much of a plan for disappearing _after_ you got out. I've got a place up north." He rattles off the latitude and longitude. "There's money there and a gray book with names. There's a man there listed as 'The Broker'. If you buy a passport and ID from him you should be able to get out of the country." 

"I can't leave you here-"

"You can and you will. Go. Cavalry's coming. I'll be fine."

Jor shoots him a panicky look, then the corridor, then he kisses Dru again, just as hard, and gets to his feet. Dru doesn't watch him go - he's drawing his other gun, gritting his teeth as he drags himself somewhere with a better line of sight. His mind feels calmer than it's been for months - perhaps for _years_. For the first time in a very long time, Dru feels at peace.

VII.

Petrus pops by the hospital ward around when Dru's nearly ready to get discharged, and he has Ursa with him, a good peace offering if Dru's ever seen one. "I don't know how you got that past the doctors," Dru notes dryly, as Ursa jumps on the bed and slobbers over him excitedly, panting.

"You don't want to know," Petrus drawls, and pulls up a chair. "So. How about that promotion."

"Promotion?" Dru arches an eyebrow. "Didn't you read my report?" He had left out the kisses, but he didn't fudge anything else. It wasn't his way.

"Read and redacted." Petrus shrugs. "You got shot by a high caliber weapon. Asset got away. Bad luck. The strike shouldn't even have gotten that far. You did as well as you could."

Dru frowns at him. "I didn't shoot-"

"And it's a good thing that you didn't. Talent like Doctor El only comes by once in a generation, if at all. He'll turn up somewhere eventually." Petrus sounds untroubled. 

"I nearly shot him. You could've said-"

"Few months ago, you probably would've shot him. The thing is," Petrus says genially, "That it's been a damned shame to lose him, sure. But it's been an equally damned shame, in my opinion, to have lost a soldier who would have made a fine General in his time." 

"This wasn't about El after all," Dru realizes, feeling slow. "You just wanted me to see what was wrong."

"And I wanted to see if you _thought_ that it was wrong. Lots of the upper brass where I am wouldn't have thought twice about it." Petrus grunts. "It's lonely here at the top. A lot of us up here have forgotten that we're still in the service. That we're meant to be doing this _for_ people, not just 'the people', whatever that is. We need more people with the courage to do what's right."

Dru thinks this over, patting Ursa, and struggles a little with the idea. He remembers the peace he felt when he had settled down in that room to wait for rescue or death. He supposes that he knows what Petrus means. "With all due respect, sir," he says, finally, "You're still a weaselly son of a bitch."

Petrus grins. "Haven't heard that for a while. Take a break. Rest up. Then come and find me at the Pentagon when you're ready to shake things up."

He doesn't go back to the cabin, just in case. After he's discharged, he finds a pet-friendly hotel, taps into his considerably larger bank account, and sits around in Nevada for a bit, then rents a car and picks his way over to Washington. Petrus doesn't seem surprised to see him so early, and Dru settles into his new life with a surprising lack of friction. Petrus may be a weaselly son of a bitch, but he's always had a good eye for talent. 

It's almost a year by the time Dru has the time to drive back up to the cabin. New car, new rank. Ursa gets excited once they get past the tree line, and she starts whining once Dru pulls up outside the cabin. He almost expects to find that it's lived in, turn around and see a shock of walnut hair, maybe, but the cabin's empty, and it's been empty for a while - dust coats just about every inch of it. He cleans it out, settles them both in, and sits at the porch, smoking. The restlessness is back in his soul. He won't be here long. 

Dru's about two days in and considering turning back for Washington when Ursa leaps up to her feet and lunges out of the door - Dru gets to the window with his hand on his gun, just in time to see her jump on Jor, licking his face as she bowls him over. He laughs and shoves at her, and Dru snorts, putting the gun away and stuffing his hands into his pockets, leaning a hip over at the doorframe. 

"Worst guard dog in the world," he tells Ursa, with mock reproach, and she wags her tail madly. Jor's duffel bag is knocked to the side, and he's dressed unassumingly, in jeans and a black tee under a heavy khaki parka. "Ursa, fetch," he adds, with a gesture, and Ursa picks up the bag by its straps, carrying it into the house with little effort. 

Jor picks himself up, dusting down, and there's little of the nervous scientist that Dru's used to in his demeanour, as far as he can tell. Jor's stride is confident, and his handshake is firm. The year's been good to him. It's been good for the both of them. "Major Zod," Jor greets him. "I hope you don't mind putting up with me for a few days."

"Still thinking about it," Dru tells him, though he's amused instead of annoyed, despite himself. He wonders if this is how Jor used to be: his charisma is nearly palpable, and Dru's a cynical man. "You shouldn't have come back to this part of the world."

"I don't think that you would've turned me in," Jor steps closer, and there's a little of that familiar nervousness in his eyes, but this time, Dru curls a palm around to the small of his back.

"Still thinking," Dru repeats, and leans over to brush a kiss over Jor's mouth. The unsettling feeling that he used to get is gone, or maybe it's muted. He isn't sure. He knows that statistically, it's unlikely that Jor's been… totally fixed… or whatever the politically correct term is. People take lifetimes to recover from mental trauma. But maybe he's had time enough to get over the artificiality of his attachment to Dru, back before. Hopefully this is something else.

Jor sighs, pressing eagerly back against him, hands curling up to his shoulders, and Dru lets him, though he doesn't open his mouth even when a tongue presses against his lips. Eventually, Jor pulls back, watching him, chewing lightly on his lower lip, confused. "Dru?"

"I think we should catch up first," Dru notes, though he rubs against Jor's spine, and Jor curls against him, his hands squeezing Dru's shoulders lightly. "Where have you been?"

"Here and there. I was with Sea Shepherd for a while, then I went to France."

"Sea Shepherd? Those whale-loving pirates?" Dru snorts. Somehow, he's not entirely surprised.

"Working on a ship is good for the soul," Jor shrugs, though he grins. "There's not much time for thinking, and maintenance is a full time job. They had a berth in France - not publicised. I built a ship, then I worked on other projects for a time. After that, I heard that you were going on leave, so I thought that maybe it was time to come back."

There's a finality to Jor's tone that startles Dru. "You can't stay here."

"I am," Jor disagrees blithely, with a nod towards the duffel bag, which Ursa has brought to the couch. "I'm turning myself in." 

"But-"

"I trust you. And besides," Jor's smile drops, "I think I have a couple of solutions that could help with Syria."

Ah. Dru hesitates. On one hand, he should tell Jor to get the hell out of dodge. Preferably now. On the other hand, he isn't unselfish, and Syria so far has been a matter straight out of Hell. "Well. Whatever you can help with," he mutters, then he adds, "France was going to intervene. You could have stayed there."

"I could have," Jor agrees, and he's mouthing distractingly over Dru's jaw, and Dru can feel the curve of Jor's hard-on trapped against his thigh. He breathes out, a little shakily. 

He can't say that he's a good man, but he likes to think he isn't a bad one, and he murmurs. "Hey. Maybe you should take this slow." 

"It's been a year and a half."

"You weren't yourself in the first part of it, and as to the second part, that isn't exactly counted," Dru points out reasonably.

"I wasn't myself?" Jor repeats, and he sounds amused, irritatingly so. 

"Normal people don't exactly break down in the face of conflict. It was an… artificial situation. You don't know me." 

"Dru," Jor notes gently, "If I hadn't liked you, if I had wanted to leave, I could have. I had other plans in the works when Petrus introduced you to me. I got caught the previous few times because I allowed myself to be. Did you think that I could come up with plans to escape from secure military facilities and _not_ be capable of planning for a further exit strategy out of the country?"

"Then-"

"I was convinced," Jor ignores the interruption, "That my situation was untenable, but was necessary: that the best work that I could do was to work for my country. I was just trying to… influence the military, I suppose. Our forces are meant for defence and peacekeeping. We aren't meant to be fighting illegal wars. It was… hard on me, my situation, but it wasn't inescapable. The stalemate was harder on me than the actual state of physical incarceration."

"But you made it better," Jor adds, when Dru frowns a little. "You convinced me that I was right to have tried to stay. That maybe the powers that be are corrupt but the men and women serving tours overseas deserve any help they can get. So I stayed, even though nothing was changing. I was happy. I was afraid that if you were transferred, I would forget that I was right to keep trying." 

Dru has his doubts about this explanation - he remembers the razor-edged anxiety, the nervous episodes, but he says nothing. If this is how Jor has pieced things together in his head, that's his prerogative. He does allow Jor to nuzzle up his jaw to his mouth, however, and this time he lets Jor in when he licks. He hasn't been celibate in Washington, but none of the men he picks up now and then kissed like this, slow, as though committing every inch and taste of him to memory. It's sweeter than he had thought possible, and he's hungry now when he was wary before: his hands curl down to Jor's hips, hauling him firmly against him, nipping at his lip when Jor stifles a moan against his mouth. 

"Please," Jor breathes, and goes down on his knees - Dru grabs belatedly for his shoulders but only manages to steady himself on them as Jor works his belt buckle open, breathing deep, cheeks flushed bright with anticipation. The first lick over the head of his cock makes Dru's breath shake out of him in a stutter, and then Jor groans and rubs his cheek against the thick flesh, the coarseness of his stubble a dry burn that almost makes Dru stumble.

Jor hasn't done this for a while, confident as he seems: he licks first, with the same intensity as he kisses, in an obscene worship of lips and wet tongues and grasping fingers, then he sucks lightly at the leaking tip as Dru curses and clenches his fingers over Jor's shoulders. He'll bruise him if Jor hasn't got his parka on, but Jor pushes into his touch with a low whine and takes in more, his mouth a red stretch over Dru's cock, his long thick hair feathering over his eyes. 

Dru pushes back the strands with a grunt, trying to stay still, as Jor takes in as much as he can and gets his hand on the rest, the heel of his free hand pressed hard between his own thighs, and fuck, that's hot - Dru's not going to last, and somehow Jor knows this: he's moaning, sucking eagerly, and it's a fight not to shove in the rest of the way, to _take_ him. He knows that Jor won't fight him, and that claws gritty fingers of lust through his blood, makes him hiss out a harsh breath as he gets his fingers tangled in Jor's hair and rocks against his mouth.

Jor swallows when he comes, the crazy bastard, just takes it all, somehow, greedy as anything, and he grins on his knees when Dru pulls away, smug. It takes a while for Dru to get his breath, then he growls and tugs Jor to his feet, manhandling him to his feet. The bed's too far: he pushes Jor against the desk, instead, undoes his buckle and shoves his pants and underwear down to his knees, dragging his parka off and dumping it beside him. 

"Are you clean?" Dru's voice sounds ragged, but Jor merely flushes and nods.

"Condoms and lube are in my parka pocket."

Dru snorts, but he goes fishing. He isn't young anymore, and they won't need the condoms at least for another few hours, but he lubes up his fingers and presses the first one in, pushing to the knuckle with steady confidence and pressing a sharp grin against Jor's shoulders when he lets out a whimper. He pulls Jor's hips back, knocking his knees as wide as they'll spread, and ignores his cock. Jor doesn't complain - though after a moment, he whines and pushes back, and Dru takes the hint, pressing in another finger, this one more slowly. 

He gets three in by the time Jor really starts to squirm and buck, and he lets him, rubbing and crooking his fingers until he finds the spot that makes Jor jerk against him with a squeal. "That's a good sound," Dru growls, and he gets it again as he shoves in his fingers. God. He almost wishes that he hadn't come earlier, but hell, this is nearly as good, watching Jor come apart under just his hands. "I bet I could fit my whole hand in there," he adds harshly, as Jor lets out a gasping sob, "The way you take this as easily as you do-"

" _Please_ ," Jor whimpers, "God, Dru, please let me-"

"Let you what?"

"Let me come, I-"

"You need permission for that?" Dru drawls, but when Jor lets out another whimper, he bites down on Jor's shoulder to stifle his own moan. That's _hot_. "Maybe I should leave you like this," he manages to say, when he finds his voice, "Just leave you stretched open from my fingers. Make you wait until I'm ready to stuff you with something bigger." 

"Oh-" Jor's breath is strangled, and Dru's tempted for a while to make good on his threat, but then Jor keens his name and rocks back hard against him, and Dru relents. 

"Come," he commands, pushing in his fingers to the knuckles and running the edge of his thumbnail against the stretched rim of muscle, and Jor shakes as he spills against the desk, his back arching beautifully as he cries out.

VIII.

There's a small lake a short walk from the cabin, and Ursa likes splashing around in the shallows. Dru has to keep an eye on her, in case she tries wading out where the current's stronger, but she's usually good at boundaries, and he can lie curled on the grass with Jor against him without having to worry too much.

Jor's the one with more anxiety problems, anyway. "What if a bear comes?" he asks, frowning doubtfully at the treeline beyond them. "It might try to eat her."

"She's faster than any bear," Dru shrugs, and drawls, "If a bear comes, I'll be more concerned about _us_. But usually if you leave them alone, they'll leave you alone." Animals are, for the most part, simpler that way. It's a nice change from the Pentagon and military politics.

"Or if she eats something she shouldn't? Dogs are allergic to a lot of things that you wouldn't expect. Like onions."

"No onions growing out here." Dru strokes a big palm up Jor's back, and Jor relaxes, if a little reluctantly, and eventually, Ursa somehow senses that Jor is fretting, and pads back over to snuffle at him. Anyone who thinks that dogs aren't smart animals can kiss her furry ass, as far as Dru is concerned. "And she won't eat anything that she isn't told to. What do you think she is, one of those toy rat-shaped things over in town?"

"That's not a nice thing to say about miniature dogs," Jor says reproachfully, though he grins as Ursa briefly tries to worm in between them, a delicate operation for a sixty-pound dog, gives up, and settles heavily over Jor's legs instead. 

They'll be driving back tomorrow. Dru still isn't sure that this is one of Jor's best decisions, but Jor is surprisingly stubborn about it, even when Dru points out that it's quite possible that Jor will just end up back in the facility under different guard. Dru's a Major now, after all. "I'll just escape again," Jor had said, with a shrug. Dru had decided not to ask how Jor had been so sure. He doesn't really want to know if there are major security gaps in US military facilities. Maybe. 

Jor squirms futilely against Ursa's weight, then gives up and settles. "You're too easy on her," Dru tells him, even as Ursa pants happily in triumph. "That's why she steamrolls you."

"I'm a willing victim," Jor admits, which is a fair description of Jor's life to date, in Dru's opinion, and Jor gets a look at his face before he can smooth out his expression. His smile is warm - amused - and Dru gets himself under control even as Jor rubs his shoulder in a lazy caress. "Hey. Things will be fine."

Maybe. Dru can't really help but feel confident, though, and he's not sure if that's a good thing. He does have rather more power where he is now than where he was before. It will be better. "I suppose if this fails you can go back to being a hippie pirate," he concedes, and allows the kiss that brushes up over the edge of his mouth, the laugh.

"They're _environmentalists_ ," Jor corrects, and gets the kiss that he's been begging for, deep and thorough enough that he squirms a little again, still ineffectively. "That's going to be part of my terms, when I sign back up with the military. 'Major Dru Zod is no longer allowed to call Sea Shepherd 'Hippie Pirates''." 

"You get terms? I thought that you were going back to a diet of bread and water."

"I think that I've improved my bargaining position," Jor grins, and gets kissed again, a little harder. "You never did tell me what 'Dru' stood for."

"Parents wanted a girl," Dru admits, because it's warm and nice on the grass under the sun, and he's feeling mellow. "They had already decided on her name." When Jor laughs, he scowls at him. "This sort of shit happens _everywhere_ in America all the time _Jordan_." 

"Normally it's to names that get switched easily, like Stephen and Stephanie, Simon and Simone-" 

"Fuck you-"

"I've never known anyone to shorten 'Druscilla'," Jor adds, gasping, "That's _hilarious_."

Dru growls, snapping his fingers - Ursa scrambles to her feet and Jor's still laughing as he drags Jor over to the lake to dunk him - he's unrepentant, splashing everywhere, and Dru ends up drenched as well, Ursa snuffling and darting around them. 

He isn't an optimist. The future won't get brighter or better than this, not likely, but if it's where Jor's headed, he's bound to follow. It's no longer a question of debt, and now more of a question of trust. For the first time in a long while, Dru is whole, and the possibility contained in the years to come no longer seems to stretch blank and endless.

"Let's get back home," he tells Jor gruffly, and Jor grins as he accepts a hand up and gets hauled to his feet.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! If you'll like to discuss ficbunnies, I'm @manic_intent on Twitter. :3


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